fearful futures lead to regrets.

I am afraid of being swallowed up. spit out. forgotten.

 

 

 

 

like gum, coloring books, old carpet, newspapers and plastic cups.

 

I am afraid of being forgotten.

 

along with my dreams and goals.

 

realistic or not.

 

I am afraid of being swallowed up. spit out. forgotten.

 

I am afraid I wont be wanted.

 

graduation will come. and go. sun burnt arms and un-brushed hair will be welcomed. but I am afraid the car payments, college books and bills will replace leaving here and going to India, China or the Philippians.

 

ringing ears and red eyes.

 

looking in the mirror and not seeing me.

 

it scares me. it makes me sad.

 

sweaty palms and sleepless nights lead to fearful futures.

I have sweaty palms and sleepless nights.

 

I am afraid.

 

I am afraid of losing me. I am afraid of forgetting about Dorothy.

 

I am afraid of staying tired and anxious or growing comfortable.

 

neither seem too desirable.

 

I am afraid of waking up with stretch marks, grocery lists and a minivan. I am afraid of ending up somewhere I never wanted to be.

 

pretty faces grow old and the wrinkles carry the memories.

expose the pains and hides the soul.

 

I am afraid of being swallowed.

I am afraid of being spit out.

I am afraid of being forgotten.

I am afraid of being forgotten.

I am afraid of being forgotten.

 

-Dorothy Breeze 

 

 

 

 

 



I CARE WHAT YOU THINK.

                                                                                    I care what every single one of you thinks of me.

the boy with the cheesy smile and the cocky personality.
                                            the girl with her nose in a book.
the boy with the slanted eyes.
                                               they girl with the bubbly personality.
                                                                                                          the boy with the skinny legs.
                                               the one I call my best friend.
                                                                             the one who gave birth to me.
                                                                             the one who helped^
the lady who is always at Walmart when I go.
                                                                        the boy with red hair that lives on my street.
                          the girl with the small voice and round face.
the kid who smokes pot.
                 the senior class president.
                                                                      the lady who writes my paycheck.
                                                                                            the teacher that gives me English credit.
the ones that never gave me a chance.

the ones I never gave a chance...

the ones that notice the ones that don't care.
                                                                                           I never stop worrying what they think of me.
                                        why am I not good enough?

I worry what you will all think of this post. if  I owe you any sort of explanation along these words and mixed up sentences as to why I wrote it.
or if you still wouldn't care.

                             I care what you think of my hair.
                                                                     the perfume I wear.
                      when my legs shine, the whitest white in the sun.
                                                                                                    my crooked fingers.
                      my imperfect body.


                                                               

              SINCE WHEN DID I START CARING WHAT YOU PEOPLE THINK OF ME?
                                      when I realized I'm not the writer my mom always bragged about me being
                    when I realized people judge you on your weight.
                                                 when I realized I loved him more than he ever liked me.
                              when I realized irrational fears do come true.
                                                        when I realized how insecure I was.
                                             when I realized I don't always show who I really am.

                                                                                      they may see a smile but it isn't the truth.


                    -Dorothy Breeze

i'm pretty sure memories are concrete.

when I was a kid me and my siblings used to play in the once vacant lot between my house and the neighbors.
there were weeds and the ground was that awful dried out dirt that hurt when you fell and was difficult to dig in.
there was a tree that provided the only shade on the whole lot.
the shade was usually stolen by our massive dog.
we built forts out of sticks and we made trails through the weeds.
we pretended we were savages or hobos living in forgotten desserts.
we would use spoons as shovels and toy dolls as our babies or captives.
we barrowed food from the house never intending to give it back.
we played until the sun went down and the mosquitoes started biting.
our jeans were never clean and we never wore shoes.
our palms were caked with dirt.
we had skinned toes and skinned elbows.
we used the dandy lions as medicine, face paint and decoration.
I never liked how they smelt.
but I loved our vacant lot.
when I was six the forts were knocked down.
the weeds were killed.
and our toys were removed.
a brick house was soon built.
windows and doors.
locks and bolts.
grass.
real flowers.
I missed our vacant lot.
the days of playing in the dirt and exploring the world through our imagination in our vacant lot were gone.
it was no longer our vacant lot.
or our primitive home. 
our forgotten dessert.
we could no longer steal food and pretend we had found it in the trash.
it was the weird games and makeshift homes, trails and dirty hands we missed the most.
the house now sits vacant.
no one to appreciate what was once stolen from our childhood.
the brick house collects dust now.
the windows and doors are dirty.
the locks stay locked.
the grass is dying. maybe its jus because its winter.
but I think it's because there is no one to love the vacant lot.
the flowers have been left to die.
the house is falling apart.
the bricks are breaking. but my memories are concrete.
i remember the days in the dirt.
i remember the vacant lot prettier with the weeds than with the house.
i miss the vacant lot.

counting sheep

stumbling through the dark hall way to my room I rub my eyes as I reach for the door. I grasp the handle and the door swings open. my eyes fixate on my bed in the center of the room. the mountain of clothing that rests on top is the only thing blocking me from jumping in and closing my eyes for the night. a trail of dirty clothes, socks  and shoes guide me to the already drawn blankets. I shove the clothes to the other side of the bed as I throw myself on to the cushiony soft mattress and the cool pillows.
it is not until now that I realize how cold my room is, I crawl under all seven blankets that coat my bed. I soon take the fetal position and hold my body tight. for the first time in a really long time my mind is seemingly blank. I hope I will actually fall asleep tonight. I hope that in a few short seconds I will be in a deep slumber, nothing will be able to wake me.
seconds grow to minutes. long minutes. the chill that fills my room is slowly waking me up. I try counting sheep. I try clearing my now racing thoughts. I tell myself it is not actually cold. I have seven blankets. it can not be cold. I tell my brain how badly I want it to shut up. I tell it how much sleeping would mean to me.
I want to know what time it is, it feels like I have lied awake for hours. i'm exhausted but the cool room and thoughts refuse to leave me alone. I hesitate looking at my phone to check the time. knowing that the bright screen will only make my eyes open wider. I grab the phone, holding it, debating whether or not to check the time. is it worth it? I fall to temptation and the bright screen is more alarming to my eyes than expected. it has been a long three minutes since I closed my eyes and tried letting the night take me.
I place the phone on my bed side table reminding myself how badly I wanted to sleep. trying to convince myself that if I shut my eyes and count the sheep again the voices will soon silence an the cold will become bearable.
I close my eyes.
my alarm goes off.  I quickly reach to silence  the loud obnoxious tone . I can finally feel the warmth of the blankets I am now cocooned in. the warmth of my bed refuses to let me escape, my sleepy self can't help but agree. my slumber wasn't nearly as deep as i hoped for.  I stretch my arms just like in the movies and roll out of bed. i stumble across the floor all i can think about is when i can try again.
try and fall asleep tonight. i begin to think of crawling back into bed and starting the dreadful yet appealing task of falling asleep all over again.

-Dorothy Breeze